Date: Mon, 19 Jul 2004 20:58:58 -0500
From: Craig
Subject: Steven (chapter two, part four)
This is the fourth part of chapter two. I know this
chapter is threatening to spiral completely out of
control, but I really wanted to confine Steven's
abduction (and the circumstances that led to same) to
one chapter; yet, different pieces of the tale keep
revealing themselves, demanding to be reckoned with,
and splitting the chapter into parts is the only practical
way to accommodate that.
Profound thanks go to everyone who is taking the time
to allow these tortured souls into your lives for a bit, and
to everyone who is writing me to tell me how they feel
about this story. I read every letter, and respond to
many of them, and the feedback means a great deal to
me. Special thanks to Steve (most seriously, the only
paramedic who has written me a positive response, and
your point about the ambulance is well-taken, sir), to PK
(an elegantly verbose man whose letters haven't yet
failed to enlighten and entertain me), to John (a reader
who, to my stunned and grateful amazement, is paying
sincere and severe attention to every last syllable of this
story), and to Mark (the answer to your question: "now
now now!") for your thoughtful perspectives, opinions,
and questions. And I offer especially heartfelt gratitude
to The Captain, whose series of recent emails were
literally overflowing with incredibly compelling and
helpful information and ideas. I'm blown away by all of
you, but especially You, Sir.
And for those of you out there ---- you know who you are
---- who are getting uptight about the contents and
context of this story, read my lips: IT'S. JUST. A.
STORY. We read and write about things that we'll never
experience ourselves; that's why it's called "fiction."
And not for nothing, but the disclaimer on page one of
this website clearly states that you explicitly choose
any access you receive to these words. If you've gotten
this far into the site, you obviously want to be here, so
now that you're here, loosen the hell up and enjoy it.
A quasi-related note: just because characters in stories
-- all stories, not just mine -- don't necessarily practice
safe sex does not mean that we mere mortals shouldn't.
A condom is just a stupid piece of rubber, and if you
honestly believe that it impedes true sexual
satisfaction, then you're being incredibly foolish, naive,
and dangerous. Sex is a 100% mental game, which is
proven by the fact that you're reading and enjoying
these stories. Safe only means boring if you have no
imagination.
OK, by the end of 2c, we had met Steven Baylor, a
confident, sensitive, college-bound Texas boy, and Jon
McDermott, an insecure, empty, unfulfilled Louisiana
man. Steven has been living a perfect life to here. Jon,
on the other hand, has been running in place for a while
now, his existence mere moments away from receiving
the kick-start of a lifetime....
TWO (part four)
She woke with a start, and she just knew, somehow,
that something was off. A mother always knows.
Wasn't she forever trying to convince her children that a
mother always knows?
At 3:37 am, on a cool March morning, Susan Baylor
knew.
She laid in bed for a few seconds collecting her
bearings, but she had an instant sense that Steven
wasn't in the house.
His room was right across from his parents' and, when
he was there, notions of him hung in the air: if he'd been
out with Haley, faint hints of Old Spice; if he'd been up at
the pool swimming laps, the unmistakable scent of
chlorine; if he'd been working out hard and heavy, a
manly, hormonal two-fer of testosterone-incited sweat
and sex.
And at 3:37 am, on a cool March morning, in the hallway
separating the bedrooms of Baylors senior and junior:
nothing. The air was still, sterile. Steven hadn't been
here for hours.
She tapped gently on his door, and then slid it ajar. Her
fingers roamed the wall, found the switch, flipped it up.
The ceiling fan hummed tentatively to life, and the four
75-watt bulbs hanging beneath exploded into action,
confirmed what she already knew. Steven's bed was
untouched, crisply made, exactly as he had left it the
previous morning, when he raced out the front door,
already too late for work to grab breakfast.
She tried to fight it, but worry immediately overtook her.
She could count on one hand all the times in his life that
Steven had missed his curfew. In fact, he had proven
himself so trustworthy that she and William hardly ever
bothered waiting up for him anymore. And, as a reward
for his stellar achievements on the football field and in
the classroom, they agreed to extend his curfew to 2 am
on Friday and Saturday nights, on his promise that it
wouldn't affect his job or his studies in any way.
And now it was Sunday morning, 3:39, and her son
wasn't here. She made a quick, quiet search of the
home ---- living room, den, bathrooms, kitchen, Robert's
room, garage, even the basement. Nothing. No note.
No phone message. No sign of Steven at all. She tied
her robe around the waist and walked outside. Steven's
prized Chevelle --- which he had bought the previous
summer for $850, and whose badly rusted exterior and
filthy, trashed interior he had worked nights on end
restoring with his own hands --- was sitting under the
carport as always (to be driven, no touched, no as much
as breathed on, only on special occasions), but his
pickup truck was gone.
Susan Baylor scanned her mind for possible
explanations. She knew that Haley wasn't in town, that
she and her parents had gone to New Mexico for the
weekend to visit relatives. (How she knew this: Steven
had come in surprisingly early Friday night, just after
eleven, explaining that Haley needed to get some sleep
because was going to do some of the driving and they
were leaving before sunup Saturday morning.)
This worried her further. Steven had a ton of friends,
almost every one of which had spent oodles of time
inside her home, at her dinner table, in her living room,
in sleeping bags in her backyard. But whenever he was
out super-late ---- and how many times had he re-entered
this house five minutes, two minutes, thirty seconds
before curfew? ---- he was usually out with Haley. Not
hardly the party animal that most of his friends and
classmates were, he generally preferred quiet nights out
on the lake, just he and his girlfriend.
Which suited her just fine. She recognized long ago how
nuts her son was about little Haley Stenson ---- just
watching the way he looked at the girl, and what a true
gallant soul he was with her, made her heart soar, made
her thrilled to be that boy's mother. And after all the
wild, worry-filled nights she endured throughout Sally's
torturous adolescence, she nightly thanked her lucky
stars for the gifts of Robert (who needed only a fast,
loaded computer to be happy) and Steven (universally
regarded as the sweetest kid in town).
3:43. Sunday morning. He still wasn't home.
She stepped back into the house, down the hall, inside
her room. William was still dead to the world. She slid
her feet into the sandals that she had already laid out for
church and decided she would drive around the
neighborhood and see if she could spot his truck. He
probably got talked into going to some party or another
and forgot to call home, she tried to make herself
believe. He probably just lost track of time.
Even before she thought it, she knew it wasn't true.
Sally, all the time. Robert, occasionally, especially
when he and his friends got together to discuss
computers, video games, whatever. But not Steven. Not
ultra-responsible Steven.
Her heart was close to pounding. Something was very,
very wrong. She was sure of it.
She drove past the Stensons' house first, praying that
Steven's truck would be out front. It wasn't. Then down
to Brad Noonan's house. Steven's favorite receiver on
the field, best friend off. Nothing.
She didn't know where this Saturday's big party was
taking place, chiding herself for never keeping track of
such things. It could've been anywhere. She considered
driving out toward the lake, but again had no clue where
to start looking once she made it that far.
You're overreacting, Susan, she kept trying to tell
herself. There's a simple explanation.
She drove past house after house, friend after friend, to
no avail. 4:06. Sunday morning. Winters, Texas was
completely asleep.
It dawned on her, just after she had decided to return
home, that there was one place she hadn't checked.
She made a quick right turn onto Main and sped up the
hill, past the school, past the Baptist church, past the
Family Dollar, First National, Allsups, Dairy Queen.
She made it to the Market Basket in just over a minute.
The two lights in the middle of the small parking lot
shone down, bathing the asphalt-covered square with a
dim yellowish glow.
She saw it immediately.
Steven's truck was parked in the back corner, just like
always.
Goosebumps swept across her arms as she pulled the
car up next to his pickup. She took a slow, deep breath,
then stepped out. The truck was locked up tight. She
stuck her face up to the window and peered inside.
Nothing unusual. She touched her hand to the hood.
Cold. Hadn't been run for hours.
She looked toward the store itself. All the interior lights
were off. Something is very, very wrong, she told herself
once more, and walked toward the building's front door.
The door was locked. All she could see inside were the
white lights of the freezer cases along the back wall.
She knew that Steven closed the store by himself on
Fridays and Saturdays: Matt usually had the meat
market shut down by six and was out the door shortly
thereafter, and Lynn, the head cashier, didn't have a
babysitter on those two nights and had to be home
before 6:30. Brian, the store's longtime manager, was
highly impressed with Steven and implicitly trusted him,
so he was more than happy to let the boy take the reins.
As she strained her eyes peeking through the glass into
the store, desperately searching for anything
extraordinary, she remembered Brian telling her a few
weeks back that Steven was the best employee that
he'd ever had, and that the whole town was going to be
devastated when he left for Austin in the fall. She
remembered smiling, remembered thanking him,
remembered wondering what she ever did in the world
to deserve such a sterling human being calling her
"Mom."
And now he was gone.
She stepped away from the door, looking all around her.
The air was eerily quiet, calm. "Steven?" she called out
into the silence. "Steven, are you here?"
No answer.
She walked around the building's perimeter toward the
dumpsters, trying to retrace Steven's likely routine in
her mind. She knew that he generally used the back
door when he was hauling the garbage out. Filled Hefty
bags, broken down cardboard boxes, shredded plastic
garb: he had previously told her that dispensing with
the store's trash was usually the last thing he did before
locking the doors.
She could barely see inside the smelly trash container,
but there were numerous flattened strips of cardboard
and at least two garbage bags, tied at the top. She then
walked to the back door. Locked. It wasn't computing.
She considered calling Brian, asking him to come down
and unlock the store so she could see for herself
whether or not Steven was inside, but she hated to call
someone at 4:15 on a Sunday morning, and she already
knew in her gut that her son wasn't inside this store ----
if he was, how would the front door have gotten locked?
"OK, Susan, just calm down now," she said aloud, to
nobody, to anybody. "Just calm down. There's an
explanation." She walked back toward the front.
"People don't just vanish now, that's just crazy. There's
an explanation." Looked toward Steven's pickup again.
"OK, he made it to the dumpster, obviously. Went back
inside the store. Locked the back door. Turned out the
lights. Left the store. Locked the front door." She
scanned the ground for keys, change, wallet, watch,
anything that would offer her a clue. There was nothing
but stray gravel. "Somebody just came here and picked
him up, then. Took him to a party. They just lost track
of time," she said. Begged herself to believe it.
She wanted to promise herself that she wouldn't get too
angry with her son when he did reappear ---- the boy is
entitled to a screw-up every now and then, she decided,
even one that worries her half to death. She steeled
herself with the idea that he'd show up just in time for
church, complete with a perfectly reasonable story, and
that they'd go out afterward and have a nice lunch and a
hearty laugh about it all.
She stole one final glance at Steven's truck, and then
got back in the car and returned home, hoping she'd be
able to get an extra hour or two of sleep.
* * * * * * *
The sex ---- the first night, seven minutes; the second,
close to forty ---- was like nothing he had ever imagined.
Not a single second of his carnal history had prepared
him for the mind-blowing sensations; he had fucked
some strong, tight pussies, true enough, but they were
nothing like this. The boy's tiny butt swallowed his
nervous dick with a near-punishing grip so severe that it
almost felt as though his penis would be yanked from his
body.
If there was one thing in the world that he had never
imagined himself doing, or having the least bit of
interest in, it would have been sliding his cock into a
teenage boy's asshole. But after it happened once, Jon
McDermott could scarcely imagine sliding his cock into
anything else.
Fucking Jake felt right. Completely natural, and real. It
was over in mere minutes ---- he hadn't gotten laid in
weeks and his body was so ready for it ---- but the
impression it left was gigantic. He was intoxicated, yes,
but the sensations, the complex emotions, still managed
to break through. It was traumatic and ecstatic. It was
gruesome and gratifying. It was nothing at all and
everything at once.
When it was over, and he lay there on top of Jake,
listening to the boy's breathing slowly return to normal,
he felt like he'd been slapped, square in the face. Felt
like there was a whole new world now available to him,
waiting for him, whispering in his ear.
He hadn't begun the evening in his right mind (which, in
hindsight, made him putty in Jason's patient hands). A
couple of tense, terse, typical telephone conversations
with his son Steve and his ex-wife Connie earlier that
afternoon had killed his mood, and he was simply
looking to go out, get drunk, and find someone to help
him forget himself for a while. He had been jerking off
daily in the interim, but he still needed the fierce
physical release of a great fuck: his balls felt insatiably
heavy, his dick full and discolored. Someone was going
to spread her legs for him tonight, he decided, come hell
or high water.
He ended up at Sully's, a downtown bar and grill that
was a favorite of the off-duty medics and generally a
magnet for beautiful women. He spent the first hour
nibbling on a burger and fries, getting progressively less
sober ---- Heineken first, bourbon thereafter ---- and
making eye contact with several potential candidates.
He was slowly driving himself into a frenzy, imagining
the darkness of his bedroom later, imagining the kissing,
the touching, the moans, the friction....
He spent the second hour getting shot down: four times,
four different women. One had a boyfriend (which she
revealed twenty full minutes into their conversation);
one had an ex-boyfriend watching her every move from
another table; one was interested until he mentioned
that he was a paramedic (evidently she had been in the
market for a man who fixed the injured rather than
merely transported them); one wasn't interested at all.
As he had resigned himself to yet another night alone, in
walked Jason with a man easily ten years his junior:
suit and tie, shiny black shoes, impeccably put-together,
and hanging on every word of the conversation. Jason
caught sight of Jon sitting alone in the dark corner and
looked back at his companion. Jon watched Jason point
toward the bar, and then saw Jason's friend scamper
off.
"Hey, old pal," Jason said to Jon as he approached the
table. "Jake and I have missed you the past few
weeks."
"Yeah?" Jon asked.
"Yeah." Jon nodded, gave Jason a slight, flippant smile.
"The poor kid.... He loves it when I have people over.
He usually only gets to see me."
It had been almost seven months since Jake's shoulder
injury, and three weeks since Jon had given Jason the
all clear. He knew Jason had been fucking the boy
again for a while ---- "My dick is gonna shrivel the fuck
up, and his asshole is gonna close up if I don't get back
in there stat, doc," Jason begged him one night over a
few beers following a rigorous physical therapy session
with the boy ---- and Jon gave in, after insisting that
Jason take it extremely easy with the kid: no rough
play, no chains, no torture games.
And then days prior, after months of twice-weekly
rehabilitation sessions in which he guided the boy
through a series of grueling stretching and weight-
bearing exercises aimed at returning the wounded joint
to full capability, Jon pronounced to both master and
slave that the shoulder was fully healed, and that their
lives and sexual routines could return to normal.
Jon then, having grown frightened of the quasi-paternal
bond he had felt himself irrevocably developing with
Jake, made himself scarce. He avoided Jason's phone
calls, messages, pages. Growing closer to Jake made
him miss his own son, Steve, all the more, and the pain
was slowly becoming unbearable.
"How is he?" Jon asked, almost tentatively, almost not
wanting to know.
"Goddamn fantastic, man. Better than ever. The sex is
better than goddamned ever, Jonny. You're a fucking
miracle worker, man."
"I'm really not."
"I'm telling you, this experience has made him a much
better, much stronger slave. You should have seen him
last night. I took him into the punishment room,
reminded him that he had several months' worth of
demerits built up and that payment had come due."
"You know, my ex-wife calls me a cold bastard every
time I talk to her," Jon said. "Did you know that?"
"Jon----"
"But I tell you what, I got nothing on you most days,
man. You take the cake."
"Oh please, is this another one of those `poor Jake'
lectures coming on? Because you can save it if it is.
There is no `poor Jake.' He's a slave. When slaves don't
obey, they get punished. How many fucking times do I
have to explain that to you?"
"I don't know, Jason, I guess until it fucking sinks in."
"Well aren't you unusually pathetic tonight?" Jason said.
"How much of that shit have you drank?"
"Not enough, obviously."
"Man, you need to get laid, pronto."
"Why the fuck do you think I'm here?" Jon cut his eyes
toward the bar. Jason's friend was pretending not to
watch them. "Who's the guy?"
"That's Sam. Works in the office."
"Really? They let teenagers work in the D.A.'s office
nowadays?"
"Fuck you, he's 23. And he's eager to please. And I
have made it my mission tonight to find out just how
eager."
"I see."
"He's been flirting with me for weeks. Trying to get in
good with the boss, I guess. Something like that."
"You're OK with that?"
"Absolutely fine." Jason sighed. "I like `em young
anyway. You know that better than most, right?"
"What about Jake?"
"What about him? He's a slave, Jon. He's not my
boyfriend."
"Christ."
"Look, I love fucking him, OK? Dearly love it. He knows
how to make my body do some incredibly magical
things, and he's fucking good at it. But sometimes I
really need to fuck a man. Need a man's body writhing
underneath mine while I fuck him senseless. Jake's
good, but he's still just a boy."
"I see. And Sam's a man?"
"Tonight he is. Look at that body. Those shoulders. I'm
not sure how often that hot ass of his gets fucked here
in backwoods Shreveport, but I'll have the scoop by
sunrise. I'm in the mood to fuck him until he's numb."
Both men eyed Sam standing at the bar, sipping a
Corona, looking more than a bit nervous.
"You excel at luring people in over their heads, Jason. I
really gotta hand it to you--"
"Are you mad at me?"
"---and against their better judgment, at that. I mean, I
knew better, for crying out loud. I knew better!"
"Jon...." Jason said.
"Don't. Just don't."
"Come home with us tonight, man."
"Fuck you."
"We can introduce Sam to Jake. We can play for a
while. We can have so much fucking fun tonight, Jon. I
can show you a whole new world."
"Fuck you, Jason."
"You know, Jake already thinks of you as Master Jon.
And he hasn't really gotten the opportunity to properly
thank you for all you have done to heal him."
"Goddamn you, Jason."
"He was telling me last night how much he wants you,
man. I had him up on the rack, stretched to the max,
putting that good-as-new shoulder to the test. He was
ramming his ass onto his favorite dildo, telling me he
wished it was you inside him instead of some rubber
mass."
"Oh God----"
"He wants you----"
"What in the fuck have you done to my mind, you
bastard?"
"He wants you to become his master for real, Jon. He
wants to be your boy in every sense of the word, man."
Silence.
"Come on, Jon. You're striking out here, that's pretty
obvious. Once you get used to it, it's just like fucking a
woman. No, wait a minute, that's a lie. It's better than
fucking a woman. Ten times better. Twenty."
"I can't do this."
"Yes you can, Jon. Just say yes. Just surrender to the
idea. It's fucking amazing, I promise you. Jake and I
will show you some things that are fucking incredible.
Just say yes."
"No...."
"I'll go get Sam, we can go to my house, drink a little,
see where the night takes us. It'll be completely
natural, the most natural thing in the world."
"No, Jason."
"Take a chance, man. For once in your pathetic,
wretched life, take a fucking chance on something
interesting." Jason turned toward the bar, motioned
Sam to join them. The young man walked over,
stretched out his hand immediately toward Jon. "Sam,
this is my oldest friend, Jon McDermott. We grew up
together."
"Nice to meet you," Sam said, with a genuine smile that
was indeed eager. Jon accepted his hand with obvious
hesitation, and Sam turned to Jason with a perplexed
expression.
"Sam," Jason said. "How adventurous are you, man?"
"I... I don't really know...." Sam didn't know how to
respond, didn't know what exactly was in store. His
evening ---- which had been revolving around a
seemingly simple seduction ---- was taking a radical left
turn.
"Well, Jon and I, we have someone that we'd very much
like you to meet. You think you're up for that, buddy?"
Jason asked, offering the young man a slight leer.
"I sup... I suppose so, Mr. Phelps." He was very nervous
now.
"Hey. What did I tell you earlier, Sam?" He smiled at
Jon, who was trying hard to control his stomach, which
was turning somersaults over the emotional trap he
knew he was being lured straight into. "Later on
tonight, you're gonna be riding my cock like a fucking
Triple Crown jockey, and when I'm thisclose to shooting
my load straight up your tight perfect ass, are you going
to be screaming out, `Mr. Phelps! Mr. Phelps! Fuck me,
Mr. Phelps! Fuck me harder, Mr. Phelps!'?" Sam shook
his head, his cheeks turning an unmistakable shade of
crimson. "Well that's a relief. I'm damn glad to hear
that." He tossed back a swig of the beer that Sam had
brought with him. "So call me Jason."
* * * * * * *
Susan Baylor's extra hour or two of sleep never came.
She returned to the house that cool March morning,
returned to bed, and listened to her husband's peaceful
snoring. Tried not to let the building panic conquer her.
Steven always carried his wallet, she knew, so if there
had been an accident or something, they would have
been contacted by now, surely. She considered calling
Abilene hospitals, but couldn't let her mind go to that
place. Not yet.
William awoke a few minutes before seven, and Susan
was still laying there, wide awake, staring holes into the
ceiling. "Good morning, beautiful," he said to his wife in
a soft, sleepy voice.
"Will," she said calmly. He recognized her tone of voice,
instantly.
"Oh God. What's wrong?"
"Steven. He didn't come home last night."
"What?!"
"I woke up, before four."
"Oh Jesus."
"I looked in his room, I looked outside, I went driving
around. His truck is still up at the store."
"Did you go to Haley's?"
"Haley's not here. The Stensons went to New Mexico
for the weekend, left yesterday morning."
"OK," William said. "OK. It's probably nothing."
"Will-----"
"Susie, listen to me, OK? It's probably just something
stupid, all right? Some party or something. Maybe he
drank a little too much and decided to stay put."
"Will, I am scared out of my mind and I'm trying really
hard not to be."
"Listen, our son is a smart kid, OK? You know that. One
of the sharpest people you know, how many times have
you said that?"
"I know. I know that. It's just that after all of Sally's
shenanigans.... I thought I wasn't going to survive her
back then."
"I remember, too well. But listen, God love my daughter
as much as I do, but Steven isn't Sally. Remember the
last time he missed curfew? Just a blown tire, baby,
that's it."
"That's not it this time. His truck's at the Market
Basket."
"He'll be here any minute, I know it. And he'll have a
perfectly reasonable story. Let's just get up, go make
some coffee, read the paper, and wait for him. Deal?"
She exhaled slowly. "Fine. But if my son believes for
one second that he's going to skip church just because
he was out all night doing Lord knows what, he's got
another thing coming."
"You tell him, momma."
"When he walks through that front door," Susan Baylor
declared, "first, I'm gonna give him a big hug." She slid
into her house shoes, re-tied her robe, and walked out
into the hallway. She took one more peek into Steven's
room, then told her husband, "And then, I'm gonna kill
him for keeping me up half the night worried sick."
* * * * * * *
They were naked, all four of them.
The humidly stale air inside Jason's basement dungeon
had sprung to life, was sizzling with sexual desire.
Jon sat timidly beside the door, trying hard to ignore the
plain fact that he was irrefutably turned on by the
overtly foreign sexual activities he was watching unfold.
Jason stood a few paces away, stroking himself proudly,
admiring his handiwork, admiring himself tremendously
for having the balls to imagine and then create and then
control a scenario like this.
Sam was on his knees on an exercise mat in the center
of the room. His arms and abdomen were hugging a
leather-covered, coffin-like rectangle. His head lolled
from side to side. His barely-visible dick was rock hard.
The older men could see he was clearly lost in the
rapture of what was happening just inside his asshole.
Jake was on his knees as well, sitting just behind Sam.
His wrists were cuffed tightly behind his back, and his
nose and mouth were buried in Sam's anus.
Jason's young protege was getting his first-ever rim job.
Sam had a fairly healthy buzz going: he knew he
shouldn't have listened, but Jason could be awfully
persuasive and insisted that he drink that fourth Corona
before they headed out into the untamed night. Said he
obviously needed to relax a bit more. Said, "I like my
assholes tight, not uptight. And yes, there's a
difference."
Once at Jason' home, Jason and Jon led the young man
down the stairs toward the basement. Sam gripped
Jason's hand. He was pretty drunk and the angle was
steeper than he expected. Jason spoke to Sam the
whole way down.
"Sam, you need to listen to me, very carefully." Sam
tried hard to focus on his boss. His mind was cloudy.
"Stay with me, Sam. I'm going to show you... you're
going to see some things down here, in this room. Some
things that you thought you'd never see in your life. Do
you understand that?" Sam waited a few seconds and
then nodded. "Now, I want you to have a good time
tonight, OK? I want you to enjoy yourself thoroughly, I
really do. But I'm telling you right now, son, and you
better listen to me. Sam? Are you listening?"
"Yes, Mr. Phelps," he said after a couple of beats.
"Sam, if you breathe one single word about any of this to
anybody outside of this room, ever, for the rest of your
sad life, I swear to Jesus I will ruin you. Am I clear,
son?"
Sam nodded.
"What you see here, what you do here, stays here. Got
it?"
Another nod.
"OK, boys, let's go make a memory." Jason slid the key
into the locks and slid open the dungeon door.
Jon watched Sam's face carefully. He felt for the kid.
He had no idea what Jason had planned for Sam, but it
couldn't have been anywhere close to what Sam must
have initially anticipated, none of which Jon would have
bet involved having a teenage boy give his asshole a
tongue bath while two naked forty-year old men looked
on, riveted.
Sam was stunned as he processed what he was looking
at. A jail cell. Whips. Chains. Leather. A skinny naked
kid, asleep behind the iron bars.
"Jake!" Jason called out. The boy jumped at the sound
of his master's voice. "Get up, buddy. There are a
couple of people here that want to see you." He walked
to unlock the cell door.
Sam was overwhelmed. It was beyond reason. There
weren't words for this.
"What is this place?" he asked, rubbing his eyes,
begging his body to sober up.
"Tonight, it's paradise," Jason responded, flashing Sam
a crooked smile as he hooked Jake's leash onto his
collar and pulled him toward the men. "Jake, you
remember Master Jon, of course. And this is Sam. He
works in my office. Sam, this is Jake. He's my slave."
"Oh my God," Sam said.
"Sam, Sam...."
"Oh my God." Sam turned back toward the basement
door, sure of nothing but his absolute need to get out of
the room.
"Sam!" Jason called, and vaulted toward the door,
dropping Jake's leash. Jason threw his body in front of
the entryway to block the young man's path. "Sam,
where are you going?"
"Home, I just need to go home and get some sleep, Mr.
Phelps."
"Didn't I tell you to call me Jason?"
"Sir ---- "
"I thought we were going to have some fun, Sam. I
thought you were adventurous. Isn't that what you told
me?"
"Sir, I need to---- "
"Sam, come in here, sit down, get comfortable, and give
yourself to me for a little while," Jason said, his voice
oozing warmth and lust. "I promise you, you won't
regret it. It'll be the best night of your life, all right?"
"Jas----"
"Listen, listen, thirty minutes. Give me thirty minutes,
and if you don't like what's happening, by all means, you
can go. I'll even drive you. OK? Deal?"
Sam looked over at Jake, who stood yawning with a
slight slouch. He was wearing a black collar with metal
studs protruding, a blue collar swinging in front of his
chest. The kid had no pubic hair, Sam could see. No
arm hair. A buzz cut on his head. His exposed dick was
limp but appeared ready to leap to life at any second.
His balls looked inflated, engorged, like he hadn't
ejaculated in months.
"Come on, Sam. If you leave now, I am certain you'll
regret it for the rest of your life. So let's just relax.
Let's lose some of these clothes and just relax, OK?
Loosen that tie a little bit," Jason said, and watched
Sam move his arm, almost mechanically, toward his
sweating neck. He then turned to Jake. "You better get
that hot tongue of yours revved up, boy. I can already
tell the man's asshole is gonna need a hell of a lot of
attention before it will accommodate my cock. Am I
clear?"
* * * * * * *
The microwave clock in the Baylor kitchen read 10:33
am. There was still no sign of Steven. Susan Baylor
was just inches away from being full-blown frantic. She
knew in her bones already ---- had known the minute,
seven hours earlier, when she awoke with the
realization that her son wasn't home ---- that something
was hideously wrong. She was now certain that there
would be no reasonable explanations, no convincing
stories ---- the window of opportunity for that was far
beyond them now, and she understood that it was time
to prepare herself for something crippling.
Susan Baylor loved all of her children, to be sure, but
she loved Steven differently, profoundly. She adored
him.
She drank cup after cup of stiff black coffee that Sunday
morning; by 10:33 am, she was nursing her seventh.
(Typical mornings, by comparison, had her struggling to
finish one, and this morning's consumption was
betraying her: she was jittery, wired.) The warmth of
the liquid generally comforted her, calmed her even.
Today it didn't. Nothing could.
Thoughts of Steven flooded her entire body, held her
heart in thrall. Flashbacks, memories, events.
The time he broke his leg in three places ---- eleven
years old, Little League, one hell of a player, so good the
coach took to calling him "Little Hank." The precocious
little fucker was in the process of stealing third base:
slid toward the plate, landed wrong, never had a chance.
She'll swear to this day that she could hear the bones
snap, as clear as water, even though she was fifty yards
away up in the bleachers. And even though she was
fifty yards away, she beat everyone onto the field as
soon as it became clear that he wouldn't be getting up
on his own.
The time she came upon Steven and Robert having a
good old-fashioned brotherly fight ---- Steven was ten,
Robert was almost eight, and there was a pair of blue
jeans that Steven prized and Robert coveted. Her
philosophy on bickering children was simple: never
intervene until you see blood; just let `em fight it out and
be done with it. Steven won that one, but it was a
knock-down, drag-out that climaxed with Steven
wrestling his brother down to the ground in a headlock
and screaming into his ear that he was never to as much
as cast a wayward glance in the direction of his closet
ever again. (The part she'll never forget, though: the
two boys, not forty-five minutes later, sharing a can of
Coca-Cola and laughing, carrying on as if nothing had
ever happened.)
The time, just last year, when she stood on a neutral
football field and held her son in a consoling embrace so
tight she thought she might crack his ribs. The
Blizzards, after a positively magical, legendary, mythical
season ---- the kind coaches and players alike dream
about, the kind no one ever dares to believe they'll
actually see ---- had stumbled in the fourth quarter of the
big game, losing the ball in what Steven was heard
describing, yelling, on the field as "a stupid
motherfucking fumble!" and setting up Celina's fourth
down field goal. Steven and his offense were left with
twenty-seven seconds of playing time, and Steven, his
focus wrecked and his heart pounding, just couldn't get
the momentum back against Celina's tough, game
defense, which held out and pulled down that shattering
15-14 victory. From the stands, she could see her son's
blatant devastation, and she was down there just after
the buzzer sounded. She was down there before Haley,
before his father, before anybody. She was down there
and she was in his face as he tore the helmet off his
head ---- already awash in tears, sweat crawling from
every pore, the boy was emotionally and physically
demolished. She yanked his body into hers fiercely,
protectively even, told him that she was never more
proud of anybody in her entire life, that he had played
his heart out, that it wouldn't matter that they lost, that
the folks in Winters, Texas would be discussing the
mighty Steven Baylor and his ferocious, competitive
spirit for years, hell decades, to come. "I'm so proud of
you," she repeated, over and over again, and hugged him
like it would kill her to let him go.
The time, also last year, when she accidentally walked
in on him as he was toweling off from a shower. She
had gone into the bathroom to deposit fresh linens and
had no idea that her son was inside, naked. They were
both completely embarrassed, but her feelings proved in
time to be more complex. She got a glimpse of her
oldest son's nude form: it didn't even register inside her
mind as a full-on view, but more as a series of mental
snapshots of individual parts ---- that thick, wet, dark
hair; a slightly bulging shoulder; a healthy pectoral
erupting behind a large, stray-haired nipple; a heavy, full
penis; a gorgeously firm thigh ---- that formed a collage
of a body.
It was just a second, maybe two, but it staggered her.
Just a second, maybe two, but it was enough to incite
inside her pride. Awe. And ---- and this is the one that
floored her ---- a touch of jealousy. Genuine envy.
She knew ---- of course she knew! ---- how outrageous
and unthinkable it was to have such thoughts about her
own son. But such thoughts were there nonetheless,
and they were inescapable. And there was a tiny piece
of her that wanted to be Haley Stenson: just for a night,
to be the insanely lucky young lady who would be held
by those gentle, practiced arms.
She knew ---- just from maternal instinct, not from
anything she had seen or heard ---- that Steven had
found and explored his sexual side. It was clear in the
new way he carried himself, in the way he maintained
himself, even in the way he played football this past
year. Everything in his life in the past year had seemed
to simmer in a palpable vigor that couldn't quite be
named. Except by Susan. Susan could name it. A
mother can always name it.
In that one fleeting glimpse of Steven's young, manly
body (just a second, maybe two), she immediately
recognized his father's frame, except Steven's was
better, stronger, more taut. Whereas William's
musculature was always rugged, natural, an
afterthought, she saw that Steven's ---- though he was
hardly a gym rat ---- was refined, deliberate, the point.
The thought thrilled her beyond all logic, touched her in
places nothing, not even her husband's familiar and
reassuring motions, ever had.
And even though her guilt and shame afterward were
immense, almost too great to bear (and she talked
herself down from it by reasoning that every mother of a
strapping, gorgeous son must experience the same
emotions), for months following the bathroom incident,
every single time she and William made love, she
silently imagined that he was Steven, and that she was
Haley. And every single time she and William made love,
William silently wondered what in the world he was
doing differently that was inspiring inside his wife the
most mind-numbing orgasms she had ever known.
* * * * * * *
Sam had been naked with a man only a handful of times
in his whole life. Had been fucked only twice (either
experience memorable for only wrong reasons). Had
never gotten his dick sucked. His entire adult life had
become an impenetrable knot of unrealized desires.
So when it dawned on him that Jason Phelps had indeed
been discreetly but plainly flirting with him during their
shared coffee breaks ---- actually, no, when it dawned on
him that he himself was flirting right back with the older,
stunning-looking man ---- it was as if a roaring blaze had
been ignited inside his skull, inside his chest, inside his
loins. When he jerked off in the nightly darkness, he
now had a clear image upon which to fix, a clear goal
toward which to navigate.
Jason reeled him in slowly, with agonizing precision and
dexterity, so that when the fateful day arrived, and he
cornered Sam in his office and boldly proclaimed that
his hard cock would be inside Sam's asshole by
nightfall, he was supremely confident that Sam would
follow wherever he led.
Sam followed. He already had enough regrets to fill two
lifetimes, was tired of allowing his innate shyness to
affect every choice he made. He had a sense (or
perhaps just a hope) that Jason would be a patient,
generous teacher, and that a night in Jason's bed would
be a torrid start to a brand new chapter of his
theretofore sheltered life.
* * * * * * *
William managed to convince his wife that they should
go ahead and attend church, that surely there would be
someone, anyone, who could give them some
information on Steven's whereabouts, or at least be able
to explain why he didn't come home last night.
Only when Robert offered to stay home and man the
phones did she agree to go. She threw on the dress that
she had selected and ironed the night before, slapped on
some makeup, and rejoined her husband in the front
room, where Robert was assuring his father that he'd run
to the church and inform them the second Steven made
contact.
Susan had been fighting the obvious fact all morning:
the only reason Steven hadn't called home ---- to tell
them he was safe, to tell them he was drunk, to tell
them anything ---- was because he couldn't. It didn't
matter to her why he couldn't, and all the options were
horrifying. Maybe he was already dead. Maybe he was
just laying unconscious somewhere ---- a friend's
backyard, a ditch, a hospital bed. Maybe he had even
been kidnapped. Each image turned her stomach, and
she could only pray that whatever had happened to her
son, that he wasn't in any pain. The thought that
somebody would knowingly inflict pain on her beloved
little boy was appalling. And blinding. And wouldn't
budge from her rattled mind.
* * * * * * *
"The kid's a genius, isn't he, Sam?" Jason asked. Sam
couldn't form words. He was so relaxed and in such
ecstasy that he could only moan, could only grunt. "I
tell you what, there's a lot that he hasn't mastered just
yet, but my slave is a goddamned brilliant asslicker.
Aren't you, boy?" Jake lifted his head to meet Jason's
eyes and offered him a barely audible "yes, Master"
before returning his attention to the stranger's ass he
had been instructed to prepare.
He was upset that Jason was apparently going to fuck
this new man but couldn't dare to voice an objection.
He was just a possession now, and he had accepted
that, and he knew that possessions can't have feelings
(not even jealousy, natch), yet: in his mind, the fact that
he belonged to Jason meant also that Jason belonged to
him, and he was never happy to discover that he was
sharing his master's cock with other assholes.
Still, he obeyed. He allowed Jason to manhandle him in
front of this audience, watched them watch Jason drag
him with that horrible leash, slap the cuffs around his
wrists, shove him to his knees and tell him to get to
work.
"Have you ever had your hole worked like that, buddy?"
Jason asked. Sam shook his head slightly, lost in a
daze, in a foggy combo of liquor and lust. "Well don't get
too spoiled down there, you hear me? Not everyone is
as talented at it as Jake is, and I don't loan him out that
often."
Jason cocked his head toward Jon, still seated by the
door. The paramedic's penis was slowly taking shape,
and Jon was gently rubbing the top of the shaft with the
tips of his fore- and middle fingers of one hand; rubbing
his stomach with the other. Jason gave an approving
nod and a ruttish grin and returned his gaze to the main
attraction.
Jake's jaw was starting to ache on either side. He had
his lips pursed all around Sam's waiting hole, sucking,
licking, gnawing at the tender flesh before him. Every
now and then he would pause to exhale a bit of his hot
moist breath onto Sam's perfectly firm asscheeks
(though that was more to rest his jaw for a few beats
than to turn the nervous prick on any further).
Sam was a lot less tense now, Jake could tell. The hole
was considerably looser, allowing his small tongue to
slide entirely inside. If Master Jason had fucked this
man without the rim job --- especially if it had been a
merciless, all-out fuck, which he knew from experience
to be his Master's favorite method --- it would've
destroyed Sam's rectum, would've torn him in two. His
memories of Savannah were fuzzy and fading fast, but
he could still recall a few johns from his early hustling
days who would fuck him hard and dry, who would turn a
cruel deaf ear to his pleas. ("I ain't payin' for romance,
kid," he said as he ravaged Jake's irresistibly tiny butt in
the cramped backseat of that trashed-out Pontiac. "I'm
payin' for a goddamn fuck, and I'm gettin' my money's
worth.") He couldn't wish that on anybody, not even a
rival for his Master's attention.
Jason's cockhead was glistening. The stiff eroticism of
the spectacle was blissfully overwhelming him. He
stared down at Sam's steadily shuddering body, grinned
again. "You see, Sam? I told you you'd enjoy yourself."
He knelt to his knees at the edge of the floormat and
inched forward until his dick was level with Sam's
downturned head. Jason worked his large fingers into
Sam's wavy blondish-brown hair and, when he had
gathered a fair handful, squeezed tightly and lifted the
man's head with a swift jerk. On reflex, Sam cried out
and tried to lurch backward, thrusting his ass further
into Jake's face and ensnaring the kid's nose inside the
crack. Jason held his hair in a tight grip and stared
straight into Sam's eyes. "Do I have your attention,
Sam?" Jason asked with a calm voice.
"Yes, sir," Sam whispered.
"Have you ever had a man's cock inside your mouth?"
"Yes, sir," he said again, thrown by the twin sensations
of the warm tongue bathing his asshole and the mean
fist clutching his scalp.
"How many times, Sam?"
"Th-three."
"Three times." Jason looked across the room at Jon,
smiled. "And was that three different cocks, or the
same cock three times?"
"Different, sir."
Jason released his grip on Sam's hair. "Look at my
cock, Sam," he said. Sam turned his eyes toward
Jason's intimidating penis. "Were those three different
cocks bigger or smaller than mine, son?"
"Jason----"
"Answer my question."
"Smaller, sir."
"So mine will be the biggest cock that you have ever
sucked, is that accurate?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good," Jason said. "Very good. Now tell me this. Do
you consider yourself a good cocksucker?"
"I-I'm... I don't know, sir."
Jason returned his hand to Sam's head, pulling the
tousled hair even tighter this time. "It's a simple
question, Sam."
"I know, sir. I just don't know how to answer it."
"OK. Fine. Tell me this. Do you think you're a better
cocksucker than the boy whose tongue is currently
fucking your asshole?"
"Sir...."
"Just make an educated guess, Sam. If you were going
to put down money on both of your cocksucking
abilities, who would you bet on? Yourself, or little Jake
back there?" He tugged on Sam's scalp until their eyes
could lock.
"I-I'd probably... probably bet on Jake, sir." Jason
smiled anew, and nodded his head in apparent approval.
"Well, Sam, that's a very smart answer. I'd probably bet
on Jake myself." Jason kept Sam's hair trapped inside
his clenched fist. "You're a smart kid, Sam," he said.
"I've watched you in the office, wondered about you,
wondered if I'd ever get this opportunity." He slowly
pushed his penis toward Sam's eyes. He gripped the
bottom of the shaft and began to rub the head against
Sam's forehead, the bridge of Sam's nose, Sam's upper
lip, Sam's chin, Sam's eyebrows, painting Sam's face,
anointing Sam with the beginnings of his steaming
semen.
The spongy head of Jason's aroused cock then slithered
once more across Sam's tightly shut, newly moistened
lips and then paused in the center. "I want you to
accept my cock into your mouth now. And before I fuck
you tonight, I want my cock to be as wet and as turned
on as your asshole is. Am I clear?"
"Yes, sir," he whispered again. He had known this
moment was coming, had been growing increasingly
anxious throughout his and Jason's blunt dialogue. Sam
didn't have a surplus of confidence in his oral sex skills,
and in Jason's slightly arrogant presence, he was
steadily losing confidence in his sexuality altogether.
He hadn't harbored any pretensions of controlling this
situation ---- a night of illicit passion with his intensely
masculine boss ---- but, as he stared at Jason's firm
cock, as he continued to enjoy the exasperating rim job
some poor kid was giving him, he was struck by how out
of control he truly was. He couldn't pin down how this
surrender made him feel ---- fear wasn't the precise
word; he wasn't quite afraid of Jason, but he was
markedly awed, and even intimidated, by the imposing
man. If there was something to fear about this night, it
was how easily he could picture himself getting lost in
this illusion. He had read about the Master/slave
dynamic, about such scenarios, and had found the
stories thrilling. But he hadn't anticipated actually
participating in one, and all of a sudden he had gotten
drunk and stumbled into a genuine fantasy world. He
had already permitted Jason to dominate him entirely;
he was certain it wouldn't take much to become the
man's servant. Just like Jake. Just like a slave.
Jason pressed the tip of his dick against Sam's still-
closed lips and said simply, curtly, "Open." Sam
instantly allowed his lips (and a half-second later, his
teeth) to part, allowed the engorged head of Jason's
penis to slide into his mouth and rest on his waiting
tongue. Jason stood perfectly still. "Take your time,
Sam. You're doing just fine. Stay calm and go with it.
We've got all night. You've got all night to satisfy me,
Sam. Just don't forget to breathe, and don't get too
excited, and you'll do just fine."
Jason released his iron grip on Sam's hair, letting the
man's skull relax inside his palm. He patted the young
man's head as he would a cute puppy. Sam exhaled
sharply and then stole a strong gulp of the room's dense
air, pulling it into his nostrils and forcing his lips to
circle tightly around Jason's cockhead.
"Are you ready, Sam?" Jason asked. Sam moaned
softly. "Do you see those whips over there, buddy?"
Another moan. "If I feel your teeth on my cock while I'm
fucking your mouth, I may just have to use one of them
on you. Am I clear?" A final moan. "You can ask Jake
back there how much I hate teeth scraping across my
cock while it's being sucked. Isn't that right, slave?"
Jake raised his head and answered, even-toned, "Yes,
Master."
"Why don't you take a break, slave. You've done a fine
job back there, but I want Sam to give me one hundred
percent of his attention for the next few minutes while
he gives me the most important blow job of his entire
life." He patted Sam's head again. "I dare say Sam's
entire future hinges on these next few minutes."
"Yes, sir," Jake said softly, struggling to rise to his
knees.
"Why don't you go over to Master Jon now, show him
some of the ways a man can please another man,"
Jason said. Jake looked over at Jon, still seated beside
the door, completely relaxed. He had had the most to
drink of any of the men, and the alcohol was showing:
eyes were bloodshot, lips beginning to droop. His
erection largely gone, his slackened penis laid against
his thigh excreting a few drops of fluid.
"Sir?" Jake asked.
"Slave, I'm going to take Sam here up to my room in a
little while and pound his ass `til daybreak. And while
we're upstairs, you're going to stay here and get fully
acquainted with Master Jon---."
"Jason---"
"Shut up, Jon," Jason said, never removing his eyes from
his slave. "Master Jon has decided he is ready to fuck
that hot ass that he's been staring at for months." Jake
nodded, heart sinking, trying not to show it. "And you're
going to throw every fiber of your being and ability into
satisfying him." He stared over at Jon. "The poor
deprived bastard has only ever had hairy pussy around
his dick, so he's depending on you to show him what
real sex feels like. Am I clear?"
"Yes, sir," Jake said.
"Yes what?"
"Yes, Master."
"Good boy, Jake," Jason said. "Now get over there and
go to it." Jake stared at his Master for a second,
telepathically begging him to remove the handcuffs that
were cutting into his wrists, knowing he'd be whipped in
front of everyone if he asked straight out. He
understood after a few beats that Jason had no
intention of dispatching the cuffs and put his head down,
fought back a set of tears, and slumped onto his
stomach. Arms bound uselessly behind him, and small,
fully engaged dick pointing painfully downward, thin
purplish head at rest against the cold floor, Jake
commenced dragging his tired body over to his new
Master.
Jason proudly watched his slave move toward Jon, then
returned his eyes to his new conquest, who had taken
the initiative and begun tracing wet circles with his
tongue around the first third of Jason's dick. Jason
could hear Sam's lips making tiny sucking sounds and
was perfectly pleased. Everything he ever wanted in the
world was in this room, and he was finally sharing it fully
with his best friend.
With gentle, smooth motions, Jason rocked his pelvis to
and fro, pushing and pulling his cock through Sam's
seizing lips. He turned back to watch Jon, who spread
his legs wider as Jake slowly approached, forming a
cove for the slave to crawl into. Jake was wincing as he
snaked in between Jon's calves, and when he thrust his
upper body across, his shoulder blades coming to rest
on Jon's thigh, Jon could see that Jake's chest, his
nipples, and the head of his cock were red, rubbed raw
from sliding across the basement floor. "It's OK, Jake,"
Jon whispered, stroking his cheek. He felt hot tears
creeping down the boy's face. "It's OK, I promise."
"I'm sorry, Master," Jake choked out silently, staring
hard at Jon's penis. He knew he'd break down
completely if he looked Jon in the eye, knew he'd be
punished if he broke down. His Master had made it clear
some time ago that he would no longer tolerate Jake
crying over his slave duties. So instead, he
concentrated on the foreign body in front of him, on the
task ahead of him: a brand new Master to please, a
brand new dick to learn.
"I'm sorry too, Jake," Jon said, moving his hand to the
boy's shoulder. "I'm sorry, too."
* * * * * * *
During the sermon, William spotted the Winters chief of
police, Tony Sweeney, sitting a couple of pews over.
Sweeney's son, Josh, was the place kicker ---- and
indeed, savior of more than his share of close games ----
on the high school football team. The Sweeneys had
hosted several barbecue cookouts for the team over the
years, and the Baylors sometimes sat with them in the
stands during games, so they had all gotten to know
each other fairly well.
When the church service was concluded, William
stepped over to Sweeney as he rose from the pew.
"Tony," William called, stretching out his hand.
"Will," Tony said. "Good to see you this morning, man."
"Listen... you guys haven't seen Steven anywhere
around this morning, have you?" he asked.
Tony's jubilant smile faded quickly. "No, no I haven't. Is
something wrong?"
"He didn't come home last night."
"OK," Tony said. "OK."
"Susan woke up around four this morning and realized
he wasn't in. She drove around town, and ended up
finding his truck up at the store. I went up there around
eight thirty this morning and it was still there. He hasn't
called, he hasn't left any messages. This isn't like him
at all, Tony. He's never done this, ever."
"Did you check inside the store?"
"Brian met me up there this morning, unlocked the door
for me. There was nothing out of place."
"OK, Will, OK. Let's stay calm here, I'm sure it's
nothing." He looked nervously around him.
"Is Josh here?" William asked as Susan joined them.
"Good morning, Sue," Tony said to her as he shook his
head. "No, no, Josh and the wife went up to Lubbock for
the weekend, they're looking at Tech, that's where the
kid has his heart set on going. They left yesterday
morning. Have you checked with the Stensons?
Whenever I see Steven around town, the Stenson girl is
usually right there by his side."
"They've gone to New Mexico," Susan said. "Tony,
something is very wrong here. I know it. I just know it."
"Sue, let's not panic, we don't know anything right now,"
Tony said.
"I know my son, all right? I know my son."
"OK, OK." Tony looked toward the door and spotted the
Noonans standing in line to exit the church. "Bradley
Noonan," he bellowed, filling the room. Steven's best
friend turned toward the voice, identified the speaker.
"Yeah, chief?" Brad called back.
"Come here for a second, son," Tony said, beckoning
him with a swipe of his hand. Brad stepped away from
his parents.
"Good morning, Mr. and Mrs. Baylor, Chief" Brad said,
and Susan reached across to hug him. Wished it could
be Steven standing before her.
"Brad, have you seen Steven this morning?" William
asked, a desperate pleading evident in his voice.
"No, sir, I haven't," Brad responded.
"Bradley, where was the party last night?" Chief
Sweeney asked.
"Out at Aaron Lampler's place, sir. His parents went to
Oklahoma City, they said we could use the ranch as long
as we kept it clean."
"Was Steven there?"
"No. I went to the store last night to see if he wanted to
go."
"What time was that?" Susan asked.
"Little past six, ma'am. He told me that Haley was in
Clayton and that he was probably gonna go home, catch
up on some homework," Brad said. "I told him---- well,
never mind."
"What, Brad?" she asked.
"Well, I told him.... told him he was just like an old man
who didn't know what to do with his wife out of town."
He looked at the floor. "It was just a joke, ma'am," he
said to Susan. "He just laughed and told me to either
buy a loaf of bread or get the he---- heck. Get the heck
out of the store."
"And that was six o'clock, Bradley?" Tony asked.
"Naw, probably six fifteen, six twenty."
"And you're sure he wasn't at the party?"
"I'm positive, chief. I was there the whole time, left at
quarter to one. My curfew is one. I'm sure he wasn't
there."
Susan sighed. "Still at square one, then," she said.
"Thanks for your help, Bradley," Tony said.
"Sorry I couldn't help more, Mr. and Mrs. Baylor."
William said, "If you hear from Steven at all, will you let
us know?"
"Sure thing, Mr. Baylor."
"And spread the word, will ya, Bradley?" Tony said.
"Find out if anybody knows anything."
"Will do, chief." Susan watched intently as the boy
rejoined his mother and father at the door. She watched
Brad speak to his parents, no doubt repeating the
conversation. She knew the news was going to spread
like a brush fire now.
"OK, you two, let's go down to the station, see if
anything has come in, see what we can come up with."
"Tony---" Susan's entire face was quivering.
"Sue, listen to me, now. This is probably nothing, all
right? Probably just some stupid teenage prank, OK?"
"No---"
"Now, listen to me, I've seen that boy of yours in action,
you hear me? I've seen all those boys wrestling each
other, horsing around. So have you."
"Yes," she said uneasily, tears freely rolling.
"Now, my Josh is a pretty stout kid, and I'm here to tell
you that your boy had him pinned down without even
breaking a sweat. In fact, had `em all pinned down
without breakin' a sweat, more times than I got fingers
to count." He looked Susan dead in the eye. "This is
probably nothing, and you need to believe that. Until we
have some concrete information, you need to stay calm
and believe that this is probably nothing." He reached
across and clutched her hand. "Steven knows how to
defend himself. I'd put good money down on that kid
any day of the week, folks. He's strong and he's smart,
and if something foul has happened here, you have to
cling to the knowledge that he can take care of himself.
OK?"
Susan nodded, fell into William's tight embrace. She
was fighting nausea again. She had agreed to come to
church, optimistic that the mystery would be solved.
But instead, it had only deepened. Brad's words had
chilled her to the core, and as they came to a boil inside
her mind, their implications threatened to send her over
the edge. Steven had been planning to come home after
he closed the store last night. He was going to catch up
on his school work.
He should have been home by 7:15 last night, tops.
He had obviously closed the store in a normal fashion,
she knew that. She had been up there at four this
morning, and everything was as it should have been:
dumpster full, lights out, doors locked. Nothing
extraordinary, nothing unusual. She knew what it had to
mean.
William started to lead his wife toward the door, and she
said simply, "Someone's got him, Will."
"Baby, you heard what the----"
"You heard what Brad Noonan said. Steven was going
to come home last night. He was coming home!"
"That doesn't mean----"
"William, someone has our son," Susan said in a cleanly
detached voice, as if she were declaring her desire for a
peanut butter and jelly sandwich. "He hasn't called us
because he can't call us----"
"Susie, let's just----"
"----and he can't call us because someone's got him.
That's why he never made it to his truck last night.
That's why he never made it home. Someone's got him."
* * * * * * *
Above all else, I'm a father. I hardly ever talk to my son
anymore, and I haven't seen him in years. But I'm still a
father. Still his father. Forever.
Our lack of a connection, that was his choice. His
request, actually. Told me the last time I saw him,
couple years ago, that his life is too complicated with
me in it. God, it killed me to stand there and listen to my
kid say something like that to my own face. He told me
he loves me, of course. Told me he understood most of
the reasons why we lost whatever bond we might have
had under different circumstances. Then he told me
that he's got the family he needs, told me he's got a
good thing.
And hell, what could I say to that? He was absolutely
right, and I knew it. Connie remarried years ago, and
Jack is a stand-up guy. Never failed to look me in the
eye. Swore to me that he'd do anything to make Connie
and Steve happy.
So my son ended up with a good mother and a good
father, and that's more than a lot of kids ever get. I've
seen that firsthand. It's also the kind of equation a man
would be a fucking fool to mess with, no matter how
close you are to the parties involved. When you see a
situation that airtight, you're best off to just leave it
alone and count your blessings.
So I left it alone. Did what Steve told me he wanted. He
told me that someday in the future, when things were
less complicated, we'd get together again. We'd
reconnect. I nodded my head, smiled convincingly. I
was trying really hard not to fall apart in front of him. Of
course, I didn't tell him that things were never going to
get simpler. He just turned nineteen a few months ago.
Wasn't even seventeen then. Life is as uncomplicated
for that boy right now as it is ever going to be.
I watched him in the rearview mirror as I pulled away.
He was waving toward me. I prepared myself to believe
that it was the last time I was ever going to be face to
face with my son, with my boy, and so far it has been.
I was there the night he was born, did you know that? In
fact, I drove the ambulance that carried Connie to the
hospital. Held her hand from the moment they wheeled
her into the building. Dr. Burke told us it was one of the
easiest deliveries he had ever seen. I was never
prouder of anyone than I was of Connie that night. She
gave me an irreplaceable gift, something that would be
mine forever. I'm not a great man, you know that. I
made my peace with that a while ago. I've done bad
things, made bad decisions all throughout my life. I'm
not one of those guys who inspires awe in others. I'm
just a man, you know. But for a second that night, I felt
like more. I felt massive. Invincible. Important. I knew,
even then, that he was going to be the greatest thing
that was ever going to happen to me.
And I can't complain, I really can't. Steve had a good
life. He got the childhood that Connie took him out of
Louisiana to give him. She kept her word, she did right
by him. She found a good guy, she made them all a good
home.
I talk to him on the phone sometimes. A few times a
year. He called last month, told me he was going to
school to be a ski instructor and a physical trainer. Told
me he had his pick of women, said they were lined up in
front of him.
That's my boy.
When I saw him that last time, I couldn't believe it.
Couldn't believe what a striking, handsome, virile young
man I had helped to create. Seventeen years old
almost, and all bold features. Blazing green eyes. Lithe,
young, athletic body. A postcard-ready Colorado kid. I
had been spending a lot of time with Jake at that time. I
had almost forgotten what a young man is supposed to
look like when all the pieces fall into place. When he's
well-fed. When he's happy.
That's probably why I agreed to back off when he asked
me to. I got a good opportunity to see with my own face
that my kid was happy. It killed me to drive off that day,
you've got to know that. But while I drove off with great
sadness, there was also a sense of tranquility
underneath it. A vast calm. A peace, just sitting there
waiting, waiting for the sorrow to wear away.
Our conversation bounced around in my skull the whole
way back to Louisiana, and by the time I made it home
again, I knew what I had to do. I knew I was finally
ready. I knew it was time.
* * * * * * *
As soon as they stepped inside the station, Susan and
William stood by the door as Chief Sweeney informed
Sarah, his loyal desk clerk for an eternity, that Steven
Baylor hadn't come home the previous night. "Oh my
Lord," Sarah said immediately, throwing her hand to her
chest and looking toward Susan. "Tell me what I can
do."
"Call Aaron Lampler, tell him to get his ass in my office
double time. Bradley Noonan told us that Steven wasn't
at their party last night, but you know how wrapped up
that damn kid gets in those girls when they show up.
Who the hell knows what he really saw last night," Tony
said, and then turned to the Baylors. "Are the Stensons
gonna be back today?"
"That's what Steven told me Friday night," Susan said.
"Some time this afternoon."
"OK, Sarah, call the Stensons every fifteen minutes until
you get someone. Leave messages. We need to get
Haley in here the minute they get home. She might have
talked to Steven last night, she might know something
we don't. We need to fill in as many of these blanks as
we can. Bradley told us he saw Steven up at the store
last night, as late as 6:20. So we need to find out who
was in that store after that, who saw Steven between
6:20 and 7, how he seemed, if he was acting strangely.
Call Brian and see if we can't get a copy of the store
security camera tape. Find out who was shopping last
night and get `em in here. Somebody in this town knows
something about why Steven Baylor didn't come home
last night, I'd bet my life on it. People don't just fall off
this planet without a trace.
"Get on the phone to Abilene, too. Call all the hospitals,
see what you can find out. See if there were any John
Does brought in early this morning, or any kids matching
Steven's description. Try San Angelo, too. Big Spring.
Lubbock, even," Sweeney said.
Sarah retrieved the thick directory from the shelf behind
her desk and was dialing numbers before Tony had even
finished speaking. Because of Chief Sweeney's son, she
knew almost all of the football boys ---- they had all
visited the station with Josh at one time or another, for
one reason or another. Steven Baylor was by far her
favorite. She was a grandmother now, twice over, but
Steven's hundred kilowatt smile always made her feel
fifteen again. Every time she did her grocery shopping,
she would always playfully pretend that she couldn't find
an item on her list ---- a particular frozen dinner one
week, a bottle of Bayer PM the next, whatever she could
think up the next ---- just so she could have him at her
disposal for a few seconds. He always led her right to
the item, whatever it may be, and always did so smiling.
The idea that something may have happened to him was
unacceptable.
Sweeney turned back to face Susan. "Sarah's a bulldog
on that telephone, OK? Don't you worry. She'll call
people the rest of the day and night until she finds that
boy, I guarantee it." He gave her a reassuring smile and
quick nod, and Susan just stared at him, expressionless.
William slid his arm around Susan's shoulders and pulled
her close.
Sweeney grabbed the two-way radio off the desk.
"Ross, Morton, Page, come in," he said. All three
officers reported in. "Listen up, men. Steven Baylor
didn't come home last night. As of right now, the last
time anyone saw him for sure was 6:20 yesterday
evening, up at the store. You guys split up and take
some of the back roads, see if you spot anything you
don't like. One of you head out toward the lake, see
what's out there." In rapid succession, "Sure thing,
Chief," came through the speaker three times.
"Chief," Sarah said, pointing the phone receiver toward
him. "Brian will meet you at the Market Basket in five
minutes."
"Then let's go up to the store," Sweeney told William and
Susan. "Take a look around, get that videotape. Let's
get some answers here."
* * * * * * *
He's sleeping now. We had a big night tonight, he and I.
Tonight was our first anniversary: one whole year since
he came here, to be with me. March 25th. I've been
watching the calendar for weeks, anxious for this day to
arrive.
We had a little celebration earlier this evening. Nothing
extravagant, just something to mark the occasion. I
thought it would be a nice gesture, to show him how
pleased I have been with his performance lately. It's
really quite remarkable, the progress he shown me since
he first came here.
When he first came here, he was still mister BMOC,
mister football superstud. It took me a while to strip
him of that mindset. That iron will, that fierce fighting
spirit... it served him well on a football field, I'm sure,
but as a slave.... Well, it took a lot of time, a lot of
needless torture, a lot of anger and discipline. He's
coming around, though. He's getting there.
Don't get me wrong, I have little doubt that he'd make a
break for it, even now, if I slipped and gave him an
opportunity. But he doesn't have the same mind he had
a year ago. Certainly, he doesn't have the same body,
the same endurance. He's still Steven Baylor, but
Steven Baylor is just a name now, just like any other.
Might as well be Jacob Allen Talbot. Might as well be
Steven Austin McDermott. Might as well be John Doe.
The aura, the legendary myth, of Steven Baylor is long
gone.
I wonder sometimes what he thinks when he looks at
himself now. What he sees. What he remembers. I
hung that tall mirror in his washroom so that whenever
he goes to prepare himself for me, he can examine
himself. Do the changes even register inside his mind
anymore? Does he even remember what he used to look
like?
When I look at him, I see pure untarnished beauty. I
walk into his cell some nights, and he still takes my
breath away. Those green eyes have lost some of their
shine since he has been here, but they're more
captivating now than they were the first time I saw him.
Back then, they were just a part of his face, they
blended in with that gelled hair and that toothy smile
and that tan complexion.
Well, the hair is gone; has been since the second day he
was here. He doesn't even make a sound anymore
whenever I pull out the clippers. The first time I shaved
his head... you should have seen him sobbing, you
should have seen him flinch and jerk, stupidly trying to
get away from me.
He doesn't smile much anymore, either. And that
perfect Texas tan faded months ago. So those eyes are
all that remain now. They just dominate. I look at that
gorgeous, pale face, that jawline even more prominent
with the weight he's lost, and his eyes literally lunge at
me, especially during our more intense sessions, when
he's sucking on his ball gag and he's moaning and I can
tell that he's pleading with me, that he's begging for
mercy... Christ, some nights, those hard green eyes will
just burn right through me.
Mine will too. Women have told me that before. The
kid's got my eyes! He could pass for my son, easily. He
could be my son.
I love him like a son, I really do. I knew the instant I laid
eyes on him that he was the boy I'd been praying for,
that he was everything I ever wanted in a son. He had
the look. The smile. The demeanor. The body. He'll
never love me like a father. I understand that now. He'll
never reciprocate my fervor, and any pretensions I had
to the contrary went away long ago. Still, you know,
having him here with me gives me a calm, a feeling of
genuine contentment that I've never known in my life.
He's been good for me. We've been good for each other,
I believe that. We got off to a rough start, he and I. He
needed time to get all that built-in aggression out of his
system, you know. Time to understand that there's
more to life than throwing a football and fucking some
sweet tart in the bed of his pickup truck every Friday
night. Time to understand that he could mean
something real to a stranger. That his mere presence
could save somebody's sanity. Could save somebody's
life.
I do try to believe that he doesn't hate me anymore for
bringing him here, for attempting to show him what else
he is capable of. I try to believe he has finally accepted
that we were destined to be together in this way, that he
was put on this planet to be my possession. I even try
to believe he has learned how to enjoy it a little, how to
find comfort in the things that he and I do together. (Or,
at the very least, learned how to appreciate the
immense satisfaction that he gives me.) He doesn't lash
out at me anymore --- not since that three day stretch he
spent balled up in his slave cage without food --- so
that's something at least. I'm sure he still gets angry.
But he has learned to squelch it, the way a good slave
should.
I hope he takes pride in the fact that, day on day, he is
becoming a fantastic slave. I hope he has given up the
silly notion that he'll get to go back home someday. I
mean, surely to God the kid realizes that, even if he
could return to his old life, nothing would be the same.
Surely he understands that his football days are long
behind him --- his body is so radically different now; he
barely has the stamina to accept a good, strong fuck
from his Master. Surely he understands that his little
slut has probably moved on to some other dick, in some
other pickup truck. Surely he understands that, with
that stubbly bald head and that skeletal body, not one of
those fools in that stupid little town would even
recognize the boy they once adored.
Here's what I've come to understand: in this life, a
select few of us get handed the reins. A select,
fortunate few of us get asked by a higher power to guide
the destiny of a living thing. It's a responsibility. It's a
privilege. It's truly the greatest gift. It doesn't matter
what you're given, either. Sometimes it's a rosebush.
Sometimes it's a dog, a house cat, a parakeet.
Sometimes it's a child.
I was given a slave.
The job is the same. So is the burden. And if you're
smart, the first and most important thing you teach them
is: good behavior merits a reward, and bad behavior
merits a punishment. Steven had a tough time with that
idea at first, but he seems now to have a firm grasp of
the simplicity of our process. He understands now that
my happiness affects every single facet of his existence,
and on his best days, he rises to that challenge
splendidly. He loves his rewards. He appreciates how
they are earned. He understands how they can take on
various forms --- sometimes, it can be something as
simple as not turning on his butt plug for a night, or
maybe taking him up to the master bedroom to fuck him,
or tying him to the tall oak tree in the backyard so he
can get some fresh air ---- by necessity. And he accepts
them with a humble gratitude that is a thousand miles
removed from that impenetrable, cocksure attitude he
had in those first few weeks.
He's come such a long way, you know. That's why we
had our little party tonight. To celebrate his remarkable
progress. To commemorate and also archive his first
year here. To give ourselves permission to move
forward, with a clear view of the road behind us and a
clear sense of the road ahead.
He was stunned when I came down here this morning
and told him what today was. He couldn't believe he
had actually spent a whole year here. I took his watch
that first night while he was still unconscious; he
doesn't have a clock down here, or a window. He no
longer has a way of marking time, and that's the way it'll
be for the rest of his life. I suppose he sometimes feels
like he's spent a hundred years imprisoned in my
basement instead of just the one.
I bought us a pizza for dinner tonight. That's what he
told me he wanted, so that's what he got. Carried a
folding card table and a couple of chairs down to the
basement, told him I would allow him to eat like a real
person tonight if he promised to be good. I usually chain
him to the bars and watch him eat his meals on this cold
hard floor, so he was absolutely thrilled when I offered
an alternative, and he swore he'd be a good boy. I even
decided to remove his butt plug and his handcuffs. Hey,
it's our anniversary. I'm not going soft or anything,
really. But the kid deserved to eat his dinner in peace
on our big day, didn't he? He was even smiling when he
sat down in his chair! Smiling! God, what a sight.
I set his usual glass of tepid tap water in front of him.
Dropped his nightly multivitamin onto his plate and
watched him swallow it. Then I opened the pizza box
and gave him a small slice. Told him to enjoy it, told him
to savor it, told him it might be another year before he
had another. His diet has been bland, bare-bones, for
months now, and I wasn't sure whether his stomach
would accept something like pizza, something it no
longer recognized. I let him have a scoop of ice cream
one night a couple of months back, and he vomited four
times while I was fucking him. A real mood-killer, to say
the least. But he wanted pizza tonight, and I figured one
slice wouldn't hurt him.
He ate the damn thing so slowly. The kid had to have
been ravenous, but he took small, measured bites.
Chewed each morsel with the utmost precision, until
there was nothing left. Even ate the crust. I've never in
my life seen anyone take ten whole minutes to negotiate
a slice of fucking pizza. But he knew. He knew I meant
what I said. He knew he had better enjoy this moment.
It was marvelous to behold his utter mastery of the
circumstance.
God, God, God help me. Sitting there, watching him, the
need to be inside of him --- the need to fuck him, the
need to violate him --- swallowed me whole all over
again. Sitting there, watching him eat, knowing the
level of control and dominance that I held in the palm of
my hand.... I was overwhelmed. I was overcome, with
desire, with need. Need to show him, again. Need to
invade him, again. Need to conquer him, again.
I told him to stand, and then I pointed over to the
sawhorse in the corner. He didn't say a word. He hates
the horse, and he knows I know it. But this was our
special night. I felt in my heart that we both needed to
be reminded, on our special night, what it was like the
very first time his asshole accepted my cock. A couple
of weeks after he came here --- after he had been
whipped repeatedly, after he had learned how to give his
new Master a blow job ---- I bent my slave over that
handsome apparatus, and cuffed his wrists and ankles
to it, and taught him what ultimate submission to a
Master truly entails. I had to drag him over there on a
goddamn leash, that's how hard he was fighting it.
Fighting me. I had him gagged, I had him hooded, I had
him hogtied, and I literally had to drag him to his
destiny.
Tonight was different. Tonight, he walked over there
willingly. I told him I wouldn't gag him as long as he
cooperated with me. Told him I didn't want to hurt him
tonight, tonight of all nights. Told him I wouldn't hurt
him unless he forced me to. Told him all I wanted was a
steady, vigorous fuck. Told him that if he gave me what
I wanted without hesitation, I'd let him come, once,
while I was inside of him.
That was his final reward tonight. I hardly ever allow
him to touch himself, even though when he's plugged,
his cock generally stays hard and ready. It keeps him
on edge, it keeps him focused. You should see his dick
some nights, the way it throbs, the way it seeps and
turns deep red. He knows I'll beat him if he comes
without my permission, though. He learned that one the
hard way. It had been a couple of months since his last
orgasm, so I knew that dick of his was spring-loaded,
knew it wouldn't take three seconds to bring him off.
Goddamn, I rode his asshole hard tonight. I don't put
him on the horse that often. It always unleashes a
torrent of memories whenever I do: I always remember
those first weeks of our relationship, and the hideous
things I had to do to him in the name of destroying his
spirit.
Sometimes I can still hear the sounds he made the first
night I fucked him --- the night I finally got him secured
onto the horse and he realized that, after all of his
valiant, futile struggling, there was absolutely nothing
he could do to keep my dick out of his asshole. You'd
have thought he was dying... all those ragged, muffled
screams, those pained yelps, those awful groans. Some
nights I can still hear it all so clearly, some nights it's so
loud I can't even stand to finish what I start. Some
nights I have to just take off. Head back upstairs.
Leave us both unsatisfied.
Tonight was good, though. One of our best. I think we
were both glad when it was over, but it was worth it.
Our sessions are always compelling and satisfying, but
you can only maintain that level of intensity for so long.
Some nights he's just soaked with sweat when we're
done. Some nights he's so exhausted that he's asleep
the second he hits the bed. Tonight was no different. I
hammered his ass until we were both satisfied, until we
were both completely spent. Just before my dick was
ready to blow, I reached underneath him and tickled his
cockhead. Massaged his balls. Fingered that vein under
his shaft. Dared him to go for it. "Come for me, Steven,"
over and over again. "Come for me, my slave...."
When I had my recovered my breath, I unlocked his cuffs
and made him stand there sucking his semen off of my
fingers until he had his balance again. Then I grabbed a
towel from the toy closet and made him wipe the rest of
his come that landed on the floor beneath the horse.
Whenever I allow him to ejaculate, I generally command
him to use his tongue instead of a towel --- Christ, you've
never seen anything quite as magnificent as a young
buck licking a month's worth of his own come off a
cement floor --- but what can I say? I was feeling
extraordinarily generous this evening, and he had been
perfectly obedient, perfectly cooperative....
I enjoy watching him sleep. There are nights when I'm
so wired and can't pull myself down from it, and so I'll
slip in here and just watch him. It's fascinating. As
miserable as he sometimes seems during his waking
hours, he always seems so peaceful when he's asleep,
even when his plug is turned on. I guess he doesn't
even notice it much anymore. I guess it gets pretty
quiet down here sometimes. Even the hum of a butt
plug must be better than complete silence, especially
when it's all you have.
I went to the hospice thrift shop last week. Bought him
an old weight bench. Fifteen bucks. Came with a
barbell and everything. It was rusty and well-used, and
some of the bolts were loose, but it'll do. I've got it in
the garage right now. I'm going to fix it up a little bit,
sand it down, slap a new coat of paint on it. That'll be
his next big reward, I think, whenever I decide that he
has earned another one.
He used to have the most phenomenal body, you know
that? Tight toned arms. Delicately carved torso. Strong
legs. He was natural, walking art. When he first came
here, I naively believed that I could train him and still
leave him physically intact, but I soon realized that
wasn't possible. He wouldn't let me. The cocky little
bastard fought me viciously at every turn. He backed
me into a corner, finally. Gave me no other choice. And
after I took stock, after I saw that I had already taken
everything from him that was even remotely important ---
his family, his slut, his football, his cock, his sexuality,
his freedom --- I realized that there was still one thing.
One final thing that I could steal.
He was so proud of his body. Goddamn. And I guess,
technically, he stole it away from himself. All I really did
was observe. Stay out of the way. Survey the fallout.
You see, after years of strenuous physical activity, my
boy suddenly found himself completely immobile ---
cuffed to his bed, or chained to the wall or shackled to
his cell bars like some motherfucking animal --- for
hours, even days on end. And on top of that, his food
consumption in those first months was restricted, to say
the very least; I even withheld food altogether
sometimes, if I needed a quick, forceful punishment to
administer.
I have a degree in human physiology. You can't even
fathom how many different physical manifestations of
the human condition that I see as a paramedic. I knew
exactly what these deprivations would cost my boy,
what toll they would take. I hated that they were
necessary. Hated it desperately. But he gave me no
choice, just like I said.
And they got the job done.
Once his metabolism had slowed to a crawl, the
changes started taking place fairly quickly. His muscles
started to feed on themselves, and I did nothing to
staunch the tide. Didn't try to stop it. His body was
falling away from him, and it was essentially all his fault.
That had to fuck with his mind, don't you think? To go
from hunky star quarterback to skinny skeleton in just a
few months? Can you imagine the psychological effects
of watching your body waste completely away, of feeling
your body waste...?
I didn't want him to die, of course, not after all I went
through to bring us together. I just wanted him to
wonder. I wanted him to recognize with all of his senses
that I was in total control of him, that there isn't a single
piece of a slave's being to which his Master can be
denied access. Most slaves can't simply be told that
and then be expected to believe it; most slaves must be
shown the full scope of a Master's domination.
Well.
Now comes the next phase, I guess. I told myself a
while ago that when I could look at Steven and believe
that he genuinely appreciated the body he once had,
that I would help him rebuild it. Every man wants his
son to look the best he can, right? Well, I watched him
tonight, on the one year anniversary of our relationship.
I watched him eat. I watched him walk over to the
sawhorse to receive his commemorative fuck. I
watched him lick my fingers clean when it was over. I
watched him return to his cell. And I believe he's ready
now. Mentally, I mean. Tonight, we brought chapter
one of our journey to a triumphant close, and I think he's
ready to move forward. I think we both are.
So that's what we'll do. We'll move forward. Together.
I'll bring that weight bench down here when I've got it
all fixed up, and we'll start with some light weights, and
we'll reconstruct the mighty Steven Baylor. It won't be
the same, of course. He won't look the same. But then,
he shouldn't look the same. I mean, he's not the football
god anymore. He's not some slutty cheerleader's all-
American hero anymore. He's just a slave. You always
construct the vessel to fit the occupant, right?
I still think about those people sometimes, the people of
Winters, Texas. The people with whom I briefly
interacted while I was watching my boy. I watched him
for a month before I became his Master, did you know
that? I watched him sack groceries. Watched him
during track practice. Watched him fuck his precious
whore out by that sad little lake. Watched the people in
that town just fawn all over him. It was almost
sickening, the ridiculous adulation they all felt for him.
It was nuts. I'll bet he could've raped the preacher's
wife and no one would have batted an eyelash. They all
treated him like he was some motherfucking celebrity,
when he was just a kid! Just a handsome punk whose
only claim to fame was his talent for throwing a football
in those silly amateur games that they all paid their four
dollars to dutifully attend every Friday night.
But still. I can't help wondering about them. It's been a
whole year now. Do they still speak of the mysterious
disappearance of Steven Baylor? Do they still print his
name in the church bulletin every Sunday? Do they still
light candles in the windowsills, still tie ribbons `round
the trees?
Will his parents ever know that they created and
nurtured the second greatest gift I've ever gotten?
You know, for a while there, I really thought I hated
Jason: for talking me and that young guy from his office
into following him home that night; for taking that guy
upstairs and leaving me alone with Jake in that
dungeon; for convincing me to surrender my
nervousness and fuck the poor kid. God, I thought I'd
never forgive him for manipulating me, for fucking with
my mind like that, for slowly folding me into his revolting
depravity. For hurting Jake and then instructing ---
indeed, expecting --- me to do the same.
But now I understand. Now I appreciate that he
was simply trying to reveal to me my true self. I have
just spent a thrilling, incredible year accomplishing that
very thing with a confident, masculine young jock who
lives in a 20'x12' cell beneath my home and will until he
dies.
Jake was a pro that night. I gave him a short, strong
fuck, just a few minutes, and he laid there and took it
like a champ. Hours after we were done, I was still on
the floor with him, beside him, trying to wrap my mind
around the fact that I had just raped a boy young enough
to be my son. Jason walked down there to check up on
us, to see how it went. I told him all about it, about how
nervous I was, about how much my dick literally ached
when it was over, about how tight the kid was. You
know what he said? He said, "Yeah, and just think:
that's what a well-used asshole feels like, Jonny. Just
imagine fucking a virgin ass."
And the scary truth was, I had imagined it. For months.
Ever since the night Jason called me to come over and
attend to Jake's shoulder injury. I immediately absorbed
the riveting power of their rapport, the amazing way that
Jason held Jake's entire rapt attention, and I
immediately knew, somewhere deep inside myself, that I
wanted a piece of it. I wanted to know what that felt
like. I tried to deny it, of course, for months. You can't
deny a revelation like that forever, though. It'll bubble to
the surface sooner or later.
And it did. At the worst possible time. At the same time
my connection to my own son was coming apart. My
mind was a fucking muddle, a jumble of anger and joy
and desperation and regret, and I needed a release, an
outlet, something concrete to plug it all into. So when
Jason offered Jake to me, after months of teasing and
baiting me, I knew it might've been my last shot at
redemption. I knew I couldn't afford not to seize the
chance.
Jason carried Jake into his cell and laid him on the bed
while I was gathering my clothes and wondering how I
was going to leave this room and return to my --- what
did Jason call it that night? "My pathetic, wretched
life"? I turned to watch my best friend. He had grabbed
a worn, threadbare blanket and wrapped it around his
slave's body. It was an incredible sight, this one simple
act. If you disregarded the jail cell and the decor of the
room, and if you'd never seen anything but Jason
tenderly carry this boy to bed, you'd never have guessed
how rough he could be with the kid. I told Jason as
much while he was locking the cell door.
He stared at me, then. Uttered one simple sentence,
one set of words that --- I kid you not --- turned my entire
life around.
He stared at me and said, "Jonny," he said, "When you
boil it all down, I'm the only father that kid has ever
known." That's when it all clicked into place for me.
That's when it became clear, what I had been searching
for. What I had been lurching toward, in fits and starts.
What I needed. What I wanted.
I wanted control.
I wanted a slave.
I wanted a son.
Author's note: I know it has taken so long to get this finished and
posted, and I appreciate your patience more than you all know.
This last monologue gave me fits, and I hope it wasn't a mistake
to include it. Took about seven drafts to get to this point, and so
we'll see where it all goes from here. All of you out there who are
clamoring to see Steven's actual abduction, your patience will be
rewarded: chapter 2e will deal with the conception, planning,
and actual occurrence of the kidnapping, so stay tuned.
Feedback, criticism, comments, and/or questions always
welcome: DarkMaster04@webtv.net